Cancer (WttBP Sequel)

Chapter 1: The Past Rests in the Present

Gerard's POV, 4 years later

Science, especially biology, is something I never particularly enjoyed. Not in school, not now.

But that is the only reason I'm still walking the hell we call earth.

They, somehow, were able to slow down the growth of my tumour. It's still there, obviously, death just hasn't stolen me away yet.

I often consider what it would've been like to die. I think both myself and the rest of the world would benefit greatly from my nonexistence, however here I am. The only reason I was kept around was as a lab rat.

Tests and prescriptions, an endless cycle.

I feel like I should be grateful to the doctors and scientists extending my life, yet I can't help but completely loathe them. Why would I want to go on knowing that my death is inevitably close and could come for me at any moment?

I never saw myself living past 25 initially, but now, at 26 years old, I'm still breathing. I'm not sure which part of that is worse.

I spent two years in a mental institution after the 'incident,' something I don't like to speak about much. Constantly being carted between there and the hospital wasn't particularly fun. I prefer to think of better days.

People often recognise me for I am quite well-known around these parts. Attention is not something I greatly appreciate.

Whilst I don't favour the publicity, I choose to ignore it. I'm getting by just fine.

I'm not crazy, there's no such thing as 'crazy.' Sure I was a little unstable, but I've recovered. The word 'crazy' is overused and absolutely disgusting, but that's what people call me.

They call me other things too, things I don't want to repeat. People whisper about me thinking I can't hear them, but I can, and if I have a single fuck maybe their comments would destroy me further. They don't though, I don't let them.

I'm not the person they think I am. I never was and I never will be. One day, maybe, I'll be able to find someone who truly believes that. Someone that sees me for me and not as I'm usually depicted.

Humans love to create alternate dimensions and realities in the heads. False illusions and dreaming is what keeps us grounded.

I'm not a patient, I'm a person.

Nobody understands.

Sometimes I just want to disappear.

I like to wonder what my life would've been if the 'cancer' card hadn't been dealt into my hand, if I hadn't developed schizophrenia, but now it is something I daren't think about.

What I have is my reality, and what matters is that it's real. Life is exceedingly terrible, but one day I'll fall out of grace and back into hell.

My wasted youth matters to me no more for now I am free. My job isn't particularly exciting but I manage to get by. At least it's quiet.

Yes, I work in a book store. Customers are sparse and ultimately something the place lacks, but with my treatments and therapies paid for I don't mind much. My pay allows me the ownership of food and I'm perfectly content with having this little.

Having any more would be a waste, for I doubt I'll be here for a great period more.

Alternatively, something I'm pleased about is that some of my hair has grown back. I bleached it white. Whilst I'm sure it can't be too good for me or my health, it pleases me. It shouldn't matter to anyone else.

I have yet to find true love, I suppose, or any at all. I'm still so hung up on him. To the doctors his name is a curse, they daren't say his name in case it sends me spiralling back into false beliefs.

My therapists tell me I'm doing well. I'm overcoming my fears and I've accepted the fact that Frank Iero is something in my head, something from my past.

There are times I still dream about the short, punk boy I met in the forest at the end of my street, and whilst I know he doesn't exist, it brings some kind of positivity to my life. Seating myself by the trees in the place I imagined us to have first met soothes me.

There's still a part of me that hopes for him to fall from a nearby tree someday. It's something that I continue to secretly desire deep down inside my soul.

He's still mine.

Frank Iero isn't real, but he can be in my dreams. I just know he can't be here with me in reality, but that's okay. He's my kind of safe haven.

Have you ever daydreamed about your soul mate and be so engulfed by your own fantasy that, when you come crashing back down to reality, you realize that it was all your imagination? It absolutely destroys you inside, but you can't help to do anything other than embrace the feeling?

I'm still in love with him.

It's absolutely idiotic, downright ludicrous. It's a fucking ridiculous notion, however here I am confessing my love for someone who isn't real.

Sometimes I wish I were void or emotions, but during more masochistic times I like the way it eats me up inside.

And I make sure I feel it on the outside too.

But nothing is making it go away this time. I cut and I can't feel it, as if I'm completely numb, immune to the feeling of the ice cold blade pressing into my skin.

Drinking does nothing.

Killing myself would be pointless, though I haw considered it. It isn't going to change the fact I've fallen for and can't have him. He will never be mine, we cannot be for neither can he.

But I still like the way Frank Iero makes me feel, the happy, content feeling he causes to spread through my veins, if only for a night.

I love the adrenaline he brings to my life, if not even reality, because he is my reality. He is the illusion that keeps me grounded.